


to make you love me

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Courtship, Dancing, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, I guess???, Matchmaking, Regency Westeros, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, anyway this is all amy’s fault, guys jon is not mr. collins I PROMISE, idk guys i just don’t wanna get hung up on historical accuracy, i’m iffy on the rating but things do get... ~sexy~... so IT STANDS, sansa and arya are the only stark children for the sake of the plot, some arya/gendry, this fic is gonna live up to its rating after all, ~indecent public flirtations~
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: When Ned Stark dies, he leaves behind his wife, two daughters, and his family’s estate at Winterfell. What follows is a series of unwanted marriage proposals, houseguests who far outstay their welcome, and Arya parading around in a comically large hat and an oil-paint mustache as she declares herself the new ‘Lord of Winterfell,’ in an attempt to dissuade her sister’s suitors.However, when Mr. Jon Snow — their distant cousin and Ned’s appointed heir to the estate — comes to call, an oil-paint mustache is hardly enough to deter him from courting Miss Sansa Stark. And she thinks, perhaps, that a man could marry her for love more than her claim, after all.(title from pride & prejudice, by jane austen)





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts), [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts), [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).



> a/n: for amy, AGAIN, because she keeps letting me steal all her ideas (though i’ve taken some liberties here)
> 
> also for mere, who is thirsty for a jonxsansa dance. also bc i think she’ll really dig this fic. and also bc i love her!!!!
> 
> this was going to be a oneshot but i have no self-control. also i’m having a bad time and need constant validation. (that should probably be my catchphrase.) (more seriously, though, expect no more than 5 chapters, and tbh even that might be pushing it a bit.) (for now enjoy this short prologue before we dig into the jonxsansa heart of it all)

_‘A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.’_

_Jane Austen; Pride & Prejudice_

 

* * *

 

When, after an arduous illness, Eddard Stark (affectionately called ‘Ned’ and, on occasion, ‘Neddie’ when Renly Baratheon’s had one too many sherrys) passes, his eldest daughter is almost immediately inundated with marriage proposals.

Winterfell is a spacious, sprawling estate, rich in both history and pocketbook, and Sansa Stark’s would-be suitors are clamoring to be its next lord. A wife such as Sansa — beautiful, accomplished, of good breeding — is a fine incentive as well, but it’s clear none of them have romance on the mind.

Indeed, her suitors, as it were, have been quite clear that the _advantageous_ nature of a marriage is far more important than the marriage itself.

The best offer she had received thus far hadn’t been made by the man himself, but the Tyrell matriarch had offered her grandson’s hand. Loras is kind and comely and famously (or _in_ famously, perhaps) content in bachelorhood. The whispers as to why such a refined, well-to-do young man remains unmarried are scandalous ones, had forced Sansa to refuse. If there is any truth to the talk, such a union would bring no true happiness to either of them. Loras had thanked her later, and expressed his best wishes to them both in the pursuit of love.

But Sansa is unconvinced that her own pursuit will yield any love at all. Loras Tyrell had been the best of her proposals and, all things considered, that was hardly saying much good.

As for the rest, Winterfell has been playing host to the more… _persistent_ of Sansa’s aspiring paramours.

(Arya would say ‘persistent in annoying the ever-living hell out of us all,’ to which Sansa agrees, but only privately, as such a statement is unbecoming of a lady. Arya is not particularly concerned with such things. Sansa is — again, _privately_ — grateful that her sister so often gives voice to her own thoughts. It’s liberating, in its way.)

Aunt Lysa had traveled north from the Eyrie, accompanied by her son and a line of other potential husbands for her niece. Namely, one Harrold Hardyng, who stands to inherit her estate in the Vale should Robin be unable. He will of course retain the lordship, but Mr. Hardyng will take on all responsibility so as to not worsen dear Robin’s condition.

(Though _dear Robin’s_ condition is eternally dreadful, whether he’s hacking into his discoloured kerchief or just being his generally unpleasant self. Not that anyone could ever say as much to Lysa, but the looks Sansa and Arya exchange during mealtimes speak volumes enough.)

“Either way, whether it’s to darling Robin or dashing Harry, she’ll make a match with an heir,” Lysa simpers over afternoon tea. “And be the housewife of _two_ fine properties, to boot.”

It’s enough to make Sansa wish her parents had born half a dozen sons, so she might have been spared all this trouble.

“What would you want with two houses?” Arya asks later, when she and Sansa are traipsing the grounds for a moment’s peace. “Winterfell’s large enough, don’t you think? No need to be so greedy. Though I s’pose that’s Aunt Lysa for you, isn’t it?”

“Too right,” Sansa agrees. She lifts her skirts as they march through a mud puddle but, alas, her hem cannot be saved. Ah, well; a project for another day. “I suspect our esteemed aunt is only trying to sway Mother’s opinion in her favour. Olenna Tyrell did likewise. Two noble families, two ancestral homes…” Sansa heaves a sigh. “Much better than marrying a cousin you’ve never met, only because he’s the legal heir to what’s yours.”

And therein lies the rub: Ned Stark had named his nephew, Jon Snow, his successor as Lord of Winterfell, if no sons came to bear the Stark name. It had been a tidy solution for Mr. Snow, too, as he stood to inherit no lands from his father — the philandering Lord of Dragonstone, who had a trueborn son upon whom to bestow his fortune.

Still, Mr. Snow had been raised on his father’s estate, per the man’s insistence that he embrace his Targaryen lineage. Rumour has it that tensions at Dragonstone often ran high and, once he’d come of age, Jon Snow had spent as little time there as he could manage. Sansa doesn’t tend to put too much stock by gossip about those she’s never so much as met, but this she hopes to be true. She would not much care to marry a man who was overly fond of Rhaegar Targaryen, no matter their relation.

She does not know for certain that she is to marry Mr. Snow, only that her mother has suggested it. To Catelyn’s mind, it would be a marriage of sense and practicality, but she is not the most especial fan of her nephew. Understandably so, as he bears the claim to Winterfell that has put her daughters’ futures in such a haze of uncertainty.

Sansa is inclined to share her mother’s reservations on the matter — and, indeed, the man. She can only hope he is not such a fool as Robin Arryn.

“Well, if I’m to marry _Sweetrobin_  in your stead now, I shan’t ever speak to you again,” Arya tells her, more imperiously than befits her character, which is how Sansa knows she’s only having a go. Though she wouldn’t blame Arya otherwise.

“I sincerely doubt anyone could force you into such a thing,” Sansa assures her. “Besides, Robin’s much too afraid of you to consent. Imagine his tortured sobs, if he was ordered to take you to wife.”

“I’d rather not think of it. I can already imagine the headache,” Arya says. “At any rate, I’m sure he’ll sob endlessly once you announce your engagement to Jon. We can only hope he drowns in his own tears.”

“I don’t know that I _am_ marrying J— Mr. Snow,” Sansa amends quickly. Keeping company with her sister can make her forget her manners.

“I’ve met him once before, when I went to the Mormonts’ with Father. Jon was there on business or something like it, I don’t remember, it was dull as a box of rocks after Mother’s taken them away so I can’t throw them at people anymore. But he was a nice chap. Felt like I had a brother. You’ll like him.”

“The trouble is he needs to like _me_.”

Arya snorts. “That’s no trouble, Sansa. He’s been writing to Mother about you, didn’t you know?”

Sansa turns sharply to face her, and nearly trips over her own feet. _“No.”_

“You knew he was coming to Winterfell. I thought it was only to oversee the property, but then I did snoop in Mother’s letters, and…” She shrugs. “It seems he’s rather keen on overseeing _you_ , too.”

“What in the Seven is that even supposed to mean?” Sansa wants to know. She can feel her cheeks heating at the implication, which only worsens when Arya smirks.

“Let’s just say I think he likes you just fine already.”

Sansa is not quite sure what she’s meant to make of that, either. She fears that she won’t be able to make sense of it within the next two days, before Mr. Snow is due to arrive at Winterfell.

 _Can I marry a man when I can’t so much as find the wit to make sense of him?_ she wonders, and supposes that, at least, is one thing she’ll figure out soon enough.


	2. i. an introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, everyone! your reviews kept me super motivated to knock out this chapter for you tonight! xx

The Stark household gathers on the front steps of Winterfell, in varying states of temperament.

Catelyn had been exasperated, Lysa had been offended, and Sansa had had to clap both hands over her mouth to smother her laughter when Arya had alighted from her rooms that morning. She had entered the dining room with a flourish, in a tailored suit and her late father’s best hat, which was comically large upon the head of so small a person. She’d smeared black oil paint above her lip in the (surprisingly elegant, Sansa thought) shape of a mustache. When Catelyn had asked what on _earth_ she meant by it all, Arya declared herself the new Lord of Winterfell, and bid their guests farewell, in a put-upon baritone, as “Miss Sansa Stark shan’t be needing a husband now. Happy travels to you all.”

The sour moods and Sansa’s hardly-suppressed giggles had lasted through breakfast. Even Arya’s mustache had withstood the rivers of melted butter she poured onto her hotcakes, though her hat often drooped and obscured her vision. That had only made Sansa hiccup with mirth; she’s not stopped since.

She does however suspect this might have something to do with nerves, too, as they await the arrival of her cousin, for which they had gathered on the steps in the first place.

That had not put Lysa in the best spirits, either. The girls wouldn’t say they had _eavesdropped_ on the row between their mother and aunt, as it was a raucous, deafening shouting match that could be heard in all corners of the house, whether you were trying to listen or not.

Sansa had been rather shocked at the words that had been traded between the women, and was none too pleased with some of the things Aunt Lysa had to say about her personal life. She’s no intention of marrying her wretched cousin Robin, nor Mr. Hardyng, the latter of whom had spent every evening since their arrival at the gambling house in Wintertown. Everyone knows the sort of thing that goes on there, and none of it’s suitable for a man who thinks to make himself Sansa Stark’s husband.

So far as she’s concerned, her aunt should keep her lofty ambitions to herself. Sansa wants no part in them.

For now, she avoids Lysa’s glares and Mr. Hardyng’s attempts to engage her in a smile. She keeps her eyes fixed upon the front gate, which had been opened in anticipation of Mr. Jon Snow’s arrival.

The household is not kept waiting for ten minutes before the party from Dragonstone appears. A dozen men, three of whom are at the forefront: a broad youth with the Baratheon look; a portly, kind-faced man in clerical garb; and the last, with windswept curls and a dusty black coat, whose own smile is tired but sweet.

 _Oh._ Sansa straightens her spine as they approach, ever closer. She feels as though she might giggle and be sick all at once.

When Sansa was a very young girl, she had fallen madly in love with the town clergyman, a Mr. Waymar Royce. He had been dark-haired, handsome, and an honourable man to devote his life to the gods. She had been sorely disappointed that she could never marry him, and quite sure she would die of a broken heart over it.

Her youthful dramatics had of course not come to fruition, as she is still alive and well — or perhaps not so well at the moment, as Mr. Jon Snow is just as dark-haired and handsome as the first man to ever steal her affections.

If he proves to be just as honourable as well, Sansa is like to faint. Much better than dying, surely, though a good deal more embarrassing.

The men dismount and bow in greeting. When Mr. Snow stands tall again, his eye catches Sansa’s and there’s a sudden rush of blood pounding in her ears. She thinks herself foolish and bids her heart to slow its pace.

But then his smile is all for her, a shy twitch of the lips, and Sansa’s heart is no longer her own.

 _You’re being silly_ , she chastises herself. _Ridiculous, eager, whimsical, flighty. Your head’s been stuck in stories far too long. You want to be romanced, but that’s no excuse for thinking there’s any truth in ‘love at first sight.’_

When Robin Arryn and Mr. Hardyng introduce themselves, all posturing and pomposity, Sansa thinks that might have something to do with her flight of fancy, too. Of course a handsome as-good-as stranger would be preferable to what she’s endured as of late.

Mr. Snow and his men nod politely, but his gaze continues to flicker her way. Arya elbows her in the side, her painted-on mustache distorting with her smirk. Sansa supposes Mr. Snow _is_ being rather obvious, hence her sister’s behaviour, but it’s not particularly hospitable to point it out as such.

Catelyn shoots them a look as they titter, which they disperse with immediately beneath the weight of their mother’s displeasure. It vanishes in an instant, though, when Mr. Snow and his men reach the front of the receiving line.

Another bow from the men, and a curtsy from the ladies (save Arya, who upholds her title as interim lord and returns their bow. The Baratheon-looking boy eyes her curiously, as though she’s a creature he’s never before seen. Sansa has found that to be many a person’s reaction upon meeting her sister).

“Jon,” Catelyn says, not altogether warmly, but not coldly, either. There is some manner of respect between them. “Allow me to present my daughters. You know Arya, I believe.”

“I do.” Mr. Snow’s voice is a deep rasp that makes goose pimples rise on Sansa’s arms. He nods to Arya. “Your mustache has grown in quite nicely, I see.”

“Thank you, sir,” Arya says, her voice not half so deep, as hard as she tries. “As I’m sure you know, I’ve been Winterfell’s regent since Father passed. We have much to discuss, if I’m to pass the house on to you.”

“I’m sure we do,” Mr. Snow plays along, even as Catelyn clears her throat pointedly. Arya grins, the broad boy continues to watch her quizzically, and Mr. Snow’s eyes flick again to Sansa’s.

“My eldest,” Catelyn continues with a nod. “Miss Sansa Stark.”

He extends his hand, as if to take the one she’s yet to offer. Ashamed of her sudden lapse in manners, Sansa hastens to oblige, and is further taken aback when Mr. Snow curls his fingers ‘round hers and brings them to his lips.

Those soft, dark eyes blaze with a curious sort of intensity as they keep focus on hers.

“Miss Stark.” His cordiality is only a footnote to the northern burr of his voice, to the press of his lips to her knuckles, and that fathomless, unyielding gaze. His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Lovely to meet you at last.”

Sansa might think him _too_ charming, dangerously so, if the tips of his ears were not glowing red as her hair.

That makes her heart pitter-patter a little faster, but she finds enough nerve to return his smile and reply, “Likewise, Mr. Snow.”

 

* * *

 

The Dragonstone party is shown to their chambers. Mr. Snow had introduced them all, most especially his fellows Samwell Tarly, a clergyman from Horn Hill; and Gendry Waters, who does in fact boast Baratheon blood. He and Catelyn had exchanged a few murmured words, which had naturally piqued her daughters’ interest.

“How do you know him?” Arya asks when the three of them are alone in the kitchens. “Mother, have you found yourself embroiled in an affair with a younger man?”

“Arya!” Catelyn admonishes her. “Don’t be so improper, or I shall lock you in the stables ‘til the house is blessedly empty once more.”

“Well I would admire you all the more, if that’s how you knew him.”

This time, Catelyn ignores her. “Your father knew him. He’s Mr. Baratheon’s son, though that’s all very hush-hush and not to be discussed, do you hear? It’s no secret Robert’s a bit… Well. In any case, your father made sure to check in on Gendry and Jon both, whenever he could. They’re both fine young men, no thanks to their own fathers. But that’s not to be discussed, either.”

The girls nod, but then lift their eyebrows at one another behind their mother’s back, in silent agreement that they will indeed discuss it; but only between themselves in the privacy of their rooms later. In the meantime, they help the cook with the noontime meal.

And all the while, Sansa’s hand tingles with the memory of Mr. Snow’s kiss.

She must get ahold of herself.

But that’s made none the simpler when he’s sat across from her at the dining table.

He continues to steal glances, as does she. His ears glow redder and she’s sure her own face must look a fright. But curiosity demands she keep at it, as if she might figure out this man and his intentions if only she could look at him hard enough.

Does he intend to stay here, at Winterfell? For how long? When he’s prepared to stay put, will he cast them from the estate, as is his right? Mother seems to think it a possibility, but Arya has said that wouldn’t be like Jon at all to do such a thing. Sansa supposes her sister might be right, though so could their mother. The only true guarantee is if he wishes to accept a proposal with her. Perhaps that is why he keeps looking at her — to decide whether he likes her enough to marry her, or not.

It’s not a terribly romantic notion and, despite her better sense, Sansa still very much hopes for romance.

She attempts to put it out of her mind for the moment — some things are best left to unfold on their own — but the conversation makes her wish to lock herself within her own head for days on end, if only she could.

Thankfully Robin has retired to his room, begging off with complaint of a headache, and Lysa has followed, likely to reassure her son after her argument with Catelyn the night before. Sansa has no wish to think on that now, either, but there is still Mr. Hardyng’s boorish talk with which to contend.

“Wintertown’s a right nice spot,” he is saying now. “My men and I’ve spent a pretty penny there already. Do you gamble, Mr. Snow?”

“No, I’ve never acquired a taste for it,” Mr. Snow replies, rather shortly. But a man such as Harrold Hardyng would never notice when he’s been snubbed.

“Oh, go on, then. Join us this evening. It would do you good to have a bit of fun. Wouldn’t want to waste your freedom while you’ve got it.”

Mr. Snow’s brow furrows. “Meaning…?”

“No disrespect to the ladies in the room, of course.” Mr. Hardyng nods to the room at large, and the Stark women raise their eyebrows in a quiet sort of challenge (nor is that something a man such as Harrold Hardyng notices). “But you won’t be able to do as you like when you’re married, will you? Best have your fun while you can.”

Sansa has the distinct feeling that Mr. Hardyng will do as he likes, married or otherwise; he’s clearly only trying to placate the women at the table. She stabs her fork into her pile of steamed potatoes, imagining it to be Mr. Hardyng’s face and promising herself that she’ll pray for penance later.

Mr. Snow takes his time with his response. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, clears his throat, adjusts the buttons on his sleeves. Gendry Waters snorts, and Samwell Tarly eyes his friend as if judging when precisely he’ll need to shut him up.

“Should a man be inclined to marry,” Mr. Snow begins at length, “I hardly think it appropriate that he spend his time squandering his fortune and, potentially, his good name. His prospective wife would deserve a better man than that, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mm, perhaps.” Mr. Hardyng sips his wine. “I daresay a man couldn’t very well know what his prospective wife had gotten up to herself, though. Fair’s fair and all that.”

“Are there often women at these gambling halls? I wouldn’t know.”

Mr. Hardyng smirks. “There are. I’ve made some fine… well, acquaintanceships, as it were.”

“Have you?” A tic starts in Mr. Snow’s jaw. He glances from Mr. Hardyng to Sansa and back again. “Well, for your wife’s sake, I do hope you tread carefully in your business.”

“Haven’t got a wife yet.”

“That fails to surprise me, sir.”

“I hear Winterfell has the loveliest Godswood,” Samwell pipes up, as Gendry snorts again, this time ale right out of his nose. “Do you attend services there, Miss Stark?”

“Oh — no,” Sansa says, tearing her gaze from Mr. Snow’s clenched fist, which relaxes the slightest bit when he catches her looking. “No, Mr. Tarly, the Godswood is reserved for private prayer and family ceremonies. We attend regular services at the sept in Wintertown, sometimes at the shrine of the Old Gods and others at the Seven.”

“I was raised under the Seven,” Catelyn explains, grateful to have avoided another row. “Ned and I thought the girls should have a well-rounded understanding of both our families’ practices.”

Samwell nods. “A wise decision, my lady. I studied all manner of faiths during my time at the Citadel. Though I must say, the North has the best of the songs.”

“We do,” Arya agrees. Her mustache has smeared from her overindulgence in afternoon tea. “They’re even better when Sansa sings them, you should hear her.”

“Oh,” Sansa starts to say, prepared to practice humility though she’s quite pleased by her sister’s praise, but she’s interrupted by Mr. Snow’s question.

“Do you sing, Miss Stark?”

“I do, Mr. Snow.”

He smiles again, far more relaxed than he’d been scant moments ago. He opens his mouth to say something further, perhaps to ask her for a song, if she would be so kind (and yes, she thinks she would) when —

“She’s quite talented at the pianoforte as well,” Mr. Hardyng cuts in as another smirk cuts his face in two. “Skilled with her hands, that one.”

Sansa drops her fork with a loud _clatter!_ , and Arya stabs her own straight into the tabletop. Gendry spills his ale, and Samwell says, “Jon —” like a warning. A warning to whom, Sansa cannot be certain; a part of her would like to know what anyone needs to be warned of at all.

But Mr. Snow has already pushed back from the table and stood. He spares no more than a single glare at Mr. Hardyng as he sharply says, “Catelyn, a word, if I may.”

“Indeed.” Catelyn excuses herself, composed as ever, but her daughters catch the flash in her eyes that tells of a brewing storm. Sansa would feel pity for Mr. Hardyng, if he had not just implied such an uncouth thing. Now she thinks the chips should be left to fall as they may.

Before Mr. Snow follows their mother to the study, he bows. “I beg your pardon, Miss Stark,” he says to Sansa, his voice much lower than when he’d sparred with Mr. Hardyng, whom he seems to be pretending no longer exists. “I do hope I might hear you sing this evening, perhaps while your guests have gone to Wintertown.”

 _Ah._ So he does acknowledge Mr. Hardyng, after all.

“Of course,” Sansa assures him. “I’d be happy to sing for you, Mr. Snow.”

She gets another smile for that. When he reaches the doorway into the corridor, he turns for another look at her, and Sansa returns his smile then.

And for a moment, it truly is as though no other suitor has ever scrambled for her attention before now, when Mr. Snow has so effortlessly captured it. 


	3. ii. a conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i added melissa to the dedications bc this fic has curative properties to kick her cold’s ass. BEGONE, SICKLY DEMONS!! 
> 
> anyway so i might hit more than five chapters after all, mostly bc i feel like bein’ a tease
> 
> >:)

Mr. Snow is not pleased. A fact to which Sansa and Arya are privy because they have their ears pressed to the closed study room door. (Sansa knows it’s not ladylike to eavesdrop, but her keen personal investment in the matter must absolve her of any wrongdoing, surely.)

“Catelyn, you can’t be serious,” Mr. Snow is saying as he paces, his footfalls keeping up a steady rhythm inside the room. “I know you said she had other offers, but… you cannot tell me, truly, that the likes of Mr. Hardyng are actual contenders for her hand.”

“Anyone who offers is a contender. I’m far from thrilled about it, but my daughters have endured quite enough heartache this past year. I will not deny Sansa of any happiness she might find.”

Sansa’s heart clenches at her mother’s words, even as she knows she could not abide them should a choice between love and duty befall her. Likely there is no finer man for her to wed than Mr. Snow — their luncheon had been evidence enough of that — but even if there were, Sansa would do what she must to keep Winterfell in her family’s hands.

The Tully words are _‘Family, Duty, Honour_ , _’_ a sentiment Sansa had inherited from her mother just as much as her waves of auburn hair.

“I don’t intend for Sansa to wed anyone but you,” Catelyn continues through the door. “Adamant as I am, though, if there’s someone else she prefers…”

“Does she have any other suitors?” Mr. Snow asks. “Proper ones, not — _that_.”

Arya snorts and Sansa giggles.

Their mother does not share in their sense of humour. Her voice is wry when she replies, “What do you mean to do, duel every man who thinks to court her?”

A beat of silence. Then a huff and Mr. Snow’s confession: “Well, I _might_.”

“That’s right bloody romantic,” Arya mutters to her sister. “Reckon you ought to marry this one.”

 _I just might_ , Sansa thinks, but cannot speak it aloud, for her heart has lodged itself in her throat at Mr. Snow’s words.

But Catelyn doesn’t share in that, either. “Oh, don’t be so foolish, Jon. If she accepts another offer, you’re free to cast us all from Winterfell as you please.”

Mr. Snow quits his pacing to sigh, long-suffering and spent. “Catelyn, we’ve discussed this. Shall I sign the property over to you? Is that what it would take to avoid further conversation on the subject?”

“My husband’s will is quite clear. The estate is yours. I would not dishonour his wishes by questioning his faith in you.”

“Due respect, my lady, but you’ve done little else but question your husband’s faith in me, else this would not be up for debate again.”

The sisters exchange a look. _Perhaps Arya js right, and we will not find ourselves without a home, after all_ , Sansa thinks.

“I am only being cautious, Jon. And you know just as well as I that I couldn’t take the estate in your stead,” Catelyn says. “If word got out that you’d ceded Winterfell to my daughters and myself alone, the vultures would descend more assuredly than they already have. It’s precisely why Ned didn’t leave the house in our name rather than yours. We’d all three be warding off unwanted marriage proposals. And if I’m quite honest with you, Sansa is the only one of us fit to bear it. I haven’t the patience anymore, and Arya… Well, you know Arya.”

“Is that meant to offend or praise me?” Arya wants to know. Sansa can only shrug in reply.

“In that vein,” Catelyn goes on, “I must warn you to mind your temper, Jon. Harrold Hardyng may be a trying man, but Sansa has far worse suitors vying for her hand.”

“As I said, I’m a skilled swordsman.”

The implication of Mr. Snow’s words should not delight Sansa so, yet she cannot help the shiver that runs up her spine.

“ _Mind your temper_ , Jon,” Catelyn insists again. “It’s all very romantic for a man to fight for his lady’s undivided attention in the songs, but in truth it’s — forgive me — wildly idiotic.”

“Well, I can be wildly idiotic myself,” Mr. Snow admits. “Just ask Sam.”

“Yes, he, at least, managed to keep himself under control at the table. You’re fortunate to have such a level-headed young man in your service. He’ll keep you and Mr. Waters in check, I’m sure.”

“He does try, my lady.”

There is another pause, then Catelyn sighs as if resigned to the inevitable. “If you insist on playing the storybook hero, do try to be subtle about it. It wouldn’t do to embarrass my daughter if another man should have the gall to speak to her in front of you.”

“Mr. Hardyng did worse than simply speak to her —”

“I am quite aware, Jon, thank you. But you’d made up your mind to dislike him well before that, didn’t you?”

Mr. Snow has nothing to say to that, which in itself is answer enough.

“Mmhm.” At last, Catelyn sounds satisfied with the conversation. “That’s what I thought.”

 

* * *

 

That evening finds the Starks and a number of their guests in the parlour, enjoying after-supper candy mints, card games, and conversation. Mr. Snow’s party is the largest and, as promised, Mr. Hardyng and his men left for Wintertown directly after their evening meal. Sansa is glad of it, though now Robin has joined them, headache alleviated for the time being. He is not half so brash as Mr. Hardyng, but nor can his age be at fault for his lack of manners, as he is just shy of Sansa’s own twenty-one years. His mother’s coddling of the boy, however, has made Robin a self-interested, inconsolable youth whose poor temper can seldom be managed.

Because it is one thing to be asked politely for a tune on the pianoforte, and quite another for someone to demand it as if you owe them some great debt.

“ _Please_ , Sansa,” Robin whines. “I’ve had such a dreadful day. It’s only a bit of music, _please_.”

Not all in attendance pay the boy any mind. But Samwell Tarly looks pained, Gendry Waters looks confused, and Mr. Snow looks as though he would very much like to hit something. His hand clenches in and out of a fist, repeatedly, very much the same way it had earlier with Mr. Hardyng.

Sansa cannot stand the pitiful way in which Robin begs to be entertained. His litany of _please_ ’s are inspired not by courtesy, but entitlement and incredulity that she has not already done as he’s asked. But she is too courteous herself to react less than favourably; and besides, obliging him is the quickest way to keep Robin quiet.

She settles at the bench and leafs through her sheet music. She knows all the songs by heart, but she is more mindful of herself with so much company in the room.

 _Florian and Jonquil_. It’s the one she knows best.

She begins to draw the melody from the piano keys, and glances up to find Mr. Snow saying something to her mother, but all the while his eyes are on _her_. Sansa does not know how she manages to keep his attention so, but it pleases her too greatly to cause any upset.

Catelyn nods once to whatever he’s said, and then, with a great, single-minded determination, Mr. Snow heads for the pianoforte. When he sidles onto the bench next to her, Sansa hears him expel a long breath, as if he’d been holding it the entire way across the parlour.

It is a testament to her years of lessons in poise that Sansa’s fingers do not falter upon the keys.

“I do hope I won’t disturb you, Miss Stark,” he says quietly.

“Not at all.” But she is quite disturbed by the rapid beat of her pulse.

She catches his smile — small, soft — in her periphery, his head tilted towards hers as he watches her play. Sansa focuses on nothing but the song and the man sat beside her. If she were to look up, she’s sure to see Robin sulking and Lysa fuming, and that would spoil her good mood. She’d much prefer seeing nothing but Mr. Snow smiling.

 _Careful_ , she warns herself, and carries on playing.

His jacket brushes her hip as he adjusts in his seat. Sansa wonders how much closer she might be permitted to get before Mr. Snow thinks her improper. And then she wonders how much more _wondering_ she’ll allow herself, before she must be excused to the Godswood to pray away such wicked thoughts.

It’s been naught but a minute, and already she’s cast aside her own warning in favour of complete carelessness.

“You play beautifully,” Mr. Snow compliments her when the song ends and she segues seamlessly into another. _Aemon the Dragonknight._

“Thank you.” Sansa wishes dearly to let out her braid, so that she might use her curtain of hair to hide her blush. When she catches Mr. Snow’s expression, though, he seems so pleased with himself that she no longer minds the state of her complexion. “I would sing, but once I start I’m afraid Robin will insist I never stop. Every time they visit I must drink my weight in tea just to soothe my sore throat.”

“That’s — well, I wouldn’t wish to offend,” Mr. Snow says, minding his temper just as her mother had insisted he do. “But perhaps you could sing for me another time.”

Her face is sure to ache from holding back her smile; she wouldn’t wish to appear _too_ eager. “I’d like that.”

“As would I.”

A comfortable yet potent silence falls between them, with nothing to fill the gap but the melody of Sansa’s songs. She chooses _Jenny of Oldstones_ next. They’re all romantic, she knows, which may send the too-eager message she’d been hoping to avoid. But she cannot help herself when it comes to love.

Mr. Snow does not seem to mind it. On the contrary, his smile never falters as she plays. His gaze is so soft upon her that she can almost feel it, a tangible thing, like the caress of a feather down her arm, or a light springtime breeze across her cheek.

She wonders if his touch would be so soft as his eyes.

It is several moments more before Mr. Snow speaks again. When he does, his voice is low and nearly urgent, as he seems in a rush to express his thoughts before he loses his nerve.

“Miss Stark, I —”

“Call me Sansa.”

It’s rather bold of her, to have him call her by her given name after hardly a day’s acquaintance. But time is a luxury they have little of, with so many persistent suitors and Winterfell already in Mr. Snow’s hands. Sansa doesn’t know what any of her would-be husbands would do about her cousin’s claim to the property they so covet. Perhaps they think she would coerce it from Mr. Snow with pretty words and fluttering lashes.

 _Or perhaps they are simply stupid_ , she thinks, considering Mr. Hardyng. _Or they see me as a consolation prize to a lordship they will never achieve. To take Winterfell’s daughter to wife is almost as fine as taking Winterfell itself._

Whatever the case may be, Mr. Snow is the only one of the lot from whom Sansa would very much like to hear her name.

There is a heartbeat between them, and then Mr. Snow begins again: “Miss Sansa —”

“ _Just_ Sansa.”

A rush of breath expels through his nose, and he must have lost his nerve, after all, as he reddens and fumbles. “Oh, I — I wouldn’t — you are still a lady, Miss Sansa. I wouldn’t wish for anyone to think less of you, if I were too familiar.”

It’s just as she’d feared — Mr. Snow is just as honourable as Mr. Waymar Royce, maybe even more so. Though Sansa cannot say she hadn’t been in trouble from the start, regardless.

“You could call me Sansa privately, then,” she suggests. It’s dangerous, this game she’s playing, dancing between flirtation and impropriety. “I don’t think anyone would hear you now.”

“I suppose they wouldn’t…” Mr. Snow trails off a moment. Then, soft yet roughly, too, like he’s only just gotten back his voice after a cold, he adds, “Sansa.”

A thrill shoots from her heart right down to the tips of her toes. “Thank you, Mr. Snow.”

He laughs, a small sort of chuckle. “Oh, now, you must call me Jon.”

“If you insist.” Oh, how her cheeks ache with the repression of her smile that simply will not _be_ repressed. “Very well, then, Jon.”

She is still plucking music from the piano, but she turns to offer him a smile. It may only be a trick of the candlelight behind him, but Mr. Snow’s — _Jon’s_ — eyes darken when theirs meet.

“Miss Sansa, I was hoping —”

“ _Sansa_ , Jon.”

He laughs again, this time breathlessly, and Sansa thinks he may have no more nerve left to speak of. “I do apologize. Please be patient with me while I adjust. I did not expect… That is, I thought perhaps you would not wish to be so familiar with me at all, all things considered.”

Sansa frowns slightly. She does not want to seem cold or in any way inhospitable; even if Winterfell did not belong to Jon by her father’s decree, it is still his _home_ , as far as she is concerned. He may not be a Stark in name, but he is in blood. And he had been so much kinder to her than any other man who wished to make Winterfell his own.

“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel unwelcome.”

“No!” Mr. Snow — _Jon, he is Jon_ — hastens to assure her. “No, you haven’t, not at all. It’s only that I would not have begrudged you of the right.”

“No one has the right to be unkind.”

At that, his gaze softens further still. It drops to Sansa’s fingers as they play _The Seasons of My Love_. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips; Sansa tries very hard not to notice it, but her diligence proves fruitless.

“Of course, Miss Sansa, you are right in that,” he agrees. His eyes lift to her face once more, though hers is concentrated upon her instrument. “I was hoping you might oblige me for a private audience tomorrow. Your mother says you are fond of the glass gardens. Would you — that is, would you like to — perhaps walk with me there?”

 _That_ nearly has Sansa’s fingers slipping on the keys. She slows the tempo, just a touch, so that the sudden, tumultuous pounding of her heart might slow with it. But she cannot help the tremble in her voice when she says, “Yes, I — I would like that, Jon, very much.”

The tips of his ears would again put the freshest summer strawberries to shame, but he positively beams at her as she finishes out the song.

Their moment of sunshine is shattered somewhat when, across the parlour, Gendry shouts, “You want _forty gold dragons_ , all for winning at a game of cards? Pardon me, my lady, but you’ve utterly lost your mind!”

“‘My lady’?” Arya echoes, then gives a hearty laugh. “That’s ‘Lord of Winterfell’ to you, sir.”

But then Sansa giggles, too, and Jon laughs, and for another moment, it feels as though they are the only ones in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: yeah so jon calling sansa ‘miss sansa’ in era-appropriate fics is one of my kinks, so it’s gonna be a bit (maybe never??? unless they’re making out, probably) before he shakes that habit


	4. iii. a walk

Another argument with her sister prompts Catelyn to allow Jon and Sansa their morning in the glass gardens, unchaperoned.

“Only if you’re quite comfortable with it, my love,” Catelyn had assured her daughter. “But if Lysa thinks she is fit to make such decisions — _any_ decisions, at that — about your future, she is sorely mistaken.”

Sansa had never thought her mother to be a spiteful woman, but it would seem that Aunt Lysa brings out the worst in her.

 _A necessary evil, perhaps_ , Sansa thinks cheerfully when Jon offers her his arm.

The day is overcast, but the sky quiet, so the threat of rain is minimal. There is only the slightest of breezes that ruffle the treetops of the Godswood, and the occasional caw of a raven is the only sound to disturb them as they walk the winding pathways outside.

The glass gardens are called as such out of tradition, as the glass that had once ensconced them was damaged in a storm years ago, and then disposed of. Ned Stark had not seen any point in replacing them at the time, as it had been an especially rainy season, and he worried the glass would only need replacing again. He was too frugal a man to justify spending so much coin, no matter how much the Starks had to spare; they would have none left to their name, if he were to spend it so prematurely on every repair. Thankfully, the gardens had thrived in their natural state, which saved Ned a fair bit of trouble.

Sansa prefers the gardens this way — open, airy, with the fragrance of so many blooms lingering across the grounds, when the wind could catch in her hair and she could feel the sun warming her skin.

There was little sun to speak of today, but Jon’s presence so close keeps her quite warm enough.

With the hand not escorting her, Jon fingers a blue winter rose hanging overhead. He chances a glance her way, and his ears redden before he even speaks: “This is precisely the colour of your eyes. I couldn’t place it at first, but… Well. There it is.”

He looks terribly embarrassed. Sansa, though, has half a mind to propose to _him_ , here and now.

“You are far too sweet to me, Jon,” she tells him. “Unless it’s my mother putting words in your mouth? Arya says she snooped in Mother’s letters,” she explains, “and there were several from you regarding the estate… and me as well.”

“Oh.” Jon chuckles nervously. “No, I swear to you, all of my clumsy compliments are entirely my own.”

“I didn’t think it clumsy at all.”

“What did you think of it, then, if I may ask?”

“I thought it was lovely,” Sansa says in tones of all sincerity. “I told you, you’re far too sweet to me.”

Jon looks as though he’d like to argue that. But Sansa cannot imagine him being any sweeter — he has already surpassed her favourite lemon cakes, and she is not sure how much more she could bear — so she says, “Now if _I_ may ask… What words did my mother exchange with you, about me?”

“You may ask, yes.”

She grins. “But will you answer, I wonder?”

He looks to his feet, grinning himself. “I’ve yet to decide.”

“Hm.” Sansa chooses to give him some peace on the subject. “Perhaps I will get you to tell me one day.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will, Miss Sansa.”

They continue their walk in companionable silence for a time. They take a turn on one of the paths, between another tree dangling with blue winter roses, and one ripe with pears, when Jon speaks again.

“I feel the need to get straight to something that’s been on my mind,” he begins. “I know you have been — that is, especially since your father’s passing, but you’ve been of a marriageable age for some time, and I’ve wondered —” He sighs, and Sansa thinks she hears a muttered curse, too. “Forgive me, but I — how many proposals have you entertained, exactly?”

 _Ah._ So that’s what he was cursing for.

“I wouldn’t say I’ve _entertained_ any of them,” Sansa says, because she hasn’t been amused in the slightest, save for Arya’s painted-on mustache. “But I’ve heard a fair few.”

“From whom? If I may ask?” Jon adds quickly, wincing self-consciously as he does.

Sansa takes a moment to collect her thoughts, as she is not quite sure where to begin. It’s been a rather horrendous whirlwind of gentlemen, many of whom do not deserve the courtesy of being addressed as such. Even still, Sansa would mind her manners about them, so she must tread carefully if she does not want Jon to think her rude or at all uncouth.

“They’ve not all been offered, not in so many words,” she says as he patiently awaits her explanation. “My Aunt Lysa means for me to take Robin or Mr. Hardyng to husband, but neither has requested so much as an audience with me.” _Yet._ “Lady Olenna Tyrell proposed her grandson. My mother has mentioned Mr. Joffrey Baratheon and Mr. Ramsay Bolton, as well, though neither has made any interest expressly known. Not any interest in me, at any rate. More so in Winterfell,” she says, not bitterly, simply stating the fact of the matter. “The estate is yours, of course, but I suppose they —”

“Understood, Miss Sansa.” Jon nods. “I’ve known a fair few men of that ilk myself. I’m only sorry you’ve had to bear it.”

“Mr. Tyrell was kind, at least,” Sansa tells him, as she wishes to be fair. “But his heart belongs to another. It’s not my place to stand in the way.”

Jon tugs at the collar of his coat. “Oh?”

Sansa takes no true pleasure in his discomfort; she laughs only to alleviate the concern plainly written across his face (and maybe a little because it pleases her so, that he seems to want her all to himself).

“Mr. Tyrell is a fine acquaintance, and his sister a dear friend of mine. But he is not for me.” Sansa squeezes his arm reassuringly. “There’s no harm done.”

“So then you have not…” Jon struggles with the words. His arm twitches a little beneath her hand. “I beg your pardon, Miss Sansa, but — there has been no one for you, then?”

 _You, perhaps_ , she’d like to say, but instead settles on, “Not as of yet, I’m afraid.”

His smile is soft but no less heartfelt for it. “I am glad to hear it. That is to say, not if it makes you unhappy, but… Your father made it plain well before he died that he wished for us to meet, and I must admit I took a fancy to the idea, having heard so much about you.”

“You did?” Sansa’s heart flutters. She is in danger of giggling like a madwoman; she can feel it bubbling deep within her stomach.

Jon nods again, and tugs her a bit closer against his side as they walk. Sansa doesn’t think he meant for her to notice, so she says nothing of it, choosing instead to enjoy his nearness.

“I’d wanted to come to Winterfell a few years past, for a season,” he goes on. “I was seventeen at the time. My father and yours had quite the row about it. Uncle Ned was hesitant at first, but he came around to my way of thinking just as soon as my father forbade it.”

Sansa frowns. “Why would he have done such a thing?”

“It was nothing against you, or your family,” Jon replies. “I suppose there was some bad blood between our fathers. Mine said it was simpler before my mother passed, as she often mediated things between them. But when she died — and it took me awhile to understand this, though I must confess I still don’t know that I do completely — my father feared I’d run off north and never return. He thought I’d embrace my Stark heritage entirely, as a way to keep close to my mother. I was only eight when she passed, and quite sullen most of the time.”

“I can hardly imagine,” Sansa teases. Mr. Jon Snow is something of a stoic man, but already she has seen hints of his good humour, and a fiery temper if provoked.

He gives her another smile. “I blame my father for that. He’d always been so keen for me to be a ‘true Targaryen,’ though he never gave me nor my mother his name. He has another son, my half-brother, but he wants desperately to keep the legacy alive. So when I asked leave to come to Winterfell, he forbade it straightaway. He said I could go as I pleased when the estate was mine to inherit, and insisted there was no need for me to leave Dragonstone until then. The place was a veritable prison. I couldn’t wait to leave it, especially once — well, once I knew you might be waiting for me here.”

Jon’s ears have gone brilliantly red again, a reaction Sansa finds to be the utmost endearing. Devastatingly romantic, even, in its own way.

“Does that mean you’ll tell me what was written in all those letters?” she wants to know. “And anything my father might have told you, too?”

He laughs. “Not yet, my lady. I think I’ve embarrassed myself quite enough for one day. And I’m afraid there’s more still I must get off my chest.”

“Please do, then,” Sansa encourages. She’s found she’d like to know every last thought on his mind. She thinks she’d like to know everything about him, in fact.

“I understand your mother’s concerns about my inheritance and my… intentions, concerning you.” He slants a look her way, as if to make sure she is not displeased. She isn’t, not in the slightest. “Considering my father, well, suffice it to say I don’t blame Catelyn for taking precautions. But let me assure you, I would never cast your family from your home, not under any circumstances. It may be mine in name, but Winterfell is _yours_ , regardless of whether or not I am. You needn’t marry anyone, not even me, if it’s not what you want.”

He stops walking then, and Sansa with him. His arm escapes her grasp as he turns towards her, and then he slips her hand into his — it’s warm and rough to the touch, but the _way_ he touches her is soft, gentle as those smiles he gives to her, as though she is something precious.

“My heart bends to your will, Miss Sansa,” he tells her, voice low even in these quiet gardens. “Whatever you wish.”

They have formally known one another for all of a day. Sansa should not want for him to kiss her so badly.

But he is so close to her now, she can smell the faint tang of black coffee and the pipe he’d smoked that morning. There are freckles under his eyes, which are searching her face as he takes but half a step closer, close enough that she could perhaps count those freckles of his, if only she could breathe.

“And what is it,” she asks, not so surprised to find her own voice hushed as Jon’s fingers caress all ‘round the hand he’s holding, “that you wish, exactly?”

He takes a deep, steadying breath, and his gaze drops to her mouth. “I’m afraid, Miss Sansa, that I am being terribly, improperly obvious about that.”

Sansa does not know whether she would like to laugh or surge up to her tiptoes, all the better for him to reach her. The laugh comes first, quiet and breathless and hardly there at all. But Jon smiles at the sound, and tugs her hand, just a little more, to bring her just a little closer…

 _Seven_ , she thinks. _There are seven freckles beneath his left eye, and eleven beneath his right._

And then, quite suddenly, it starts to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: hehehehehehe


	5. iv. a rainstorm

For a sky which had seemed so innocuous when they’d set upon their walk, it’s now opened with a torrential sort of vengeance. It’s mere seconds between the start of the storm and Jon yanking Sansa beneath the nearest tree, and still they find themselves positively drenched. The sparse treetop offers little relief.

Sansa had worn a pretty, blush-coloured dress — not her finest, but not some bedraggled thing in need of mending, either. It’s soaked through, forcing her to fold her arms protectively across her chest, lest she appear to be some kind of seductress.

Not that she’s opposed to seducing Mr. Jon Snow, but —

 _Oh, dear._ The rain has already made her ill, and now she’s entertaining all manner of lurid, ludicrous fantasies.

“I didn’t know it was going to rain,” Sansa laments. She tries, fruitlessly, to wring out her hair, which she sorely regrets having left down that morning. But by chance it had fallen in such perfect waves when she’d woken, that she hadn’t wished to spoil it with braids and pins. The rain, however, has proven to be much more trouble.

“Nor did I.”

If Sansa is not very much mistaken, Jon’s eyes — lashes dripping with raindrops — fall to the neckline of her likely-ruined dress. She watches his throat bob, and then he’s shrugging out of his fine, if a bit worse for wear, wool coat and swinging it ‘round her own shoulders.

He straightens the lapels, knuckles skimming downwards, and tells her, “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold, Miss Sansa.”

He is in nothing but his shirt and vest now, trousers and dusty boots. Sansa is fixated on the hollow at the base of his throat, as his fingers brush the ends of her hair. He glances down, to her feet, and says, “I wouldn't want you to ruin your slippers, either. Perhaps it would be best if I… carried you, back up to the house.”

The thought of being swept into his arms is a titillating one — lovely and romantic and quite possibly wicked — but Sansa’s manners urge her to protest. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to —”

“You didn’t.” And with that, she is indeed swept up into his arms (lovely and romantic and _certainly_ wicked, Sansa thinks, when one of Jon’s hands flexes at her hip, and the other beneath her thigh). “I offered. Now, which way shall I go, if we’re to be quickly out of this storm?”

With no room left for argument, Sansa directs him towards the housekeepers’ entrance. It is at the back of the estate, closest to the gardens.

Closest, but not close enough to avoid the rain entirely. They’re drenched to the bones by the time they reach the doorway. Though Sansa hardly notices the chill, not when Jon’s hands continue to tighten, his fingers caressing the curve of her hip, her thigh, as if he is not doing it with any intention, but rather it comes naturally to touch her so intimately.

When he sets her gently on her feet, her skirt hitches upwards and his fingertips graze — _linger_ — on the back of her stockinged calf.

She shivers. Jon notices.

“Are you cold, Miss Sansa?”

“No,” she lies, plain enough to see as her teeth chatter. She holds his coat tighter at the front. “You must be, though, I’ve taken your coat —”

“It’s no trouble, I gave it to you —”

“I’ll fetch you some linens, you can’t be comfortable as you are…” Sansa swallows as she looks him over. Soaked curls, top button undone, vest all askew; shirtsleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms that had carried her so effortlessly across the sprawling lawns; broad, callused, twitching hands, flexing back and forth into a fist as he attempts to keep under control.

Under control of what, precisely, Sansa cannot say.

Meanwhile she is dripping with rainwater, her dress heavy and feet half-frozen, long red hair sure to be a tangle. She lifts a hand to pat it down, apologizing, “I must look a fright —”

“Never, my lady.” Jon shakes his head, takes a step closer. They’re still standing in the doorway, so that the wind whips her skirts ‘round her ankles and the rain pelts them with persistence, if less aggression than when they’d been properly outside. “Quite the opposite.”

“Oh?” Sansa’s smile is shaky from nerves. Her back is flush with the doorframe behind her and Jon keeps getting closer. “I’m afraid I’ve seen myself after getting caught in a storm, sir, so I beg your pardon but it is far from a pretty sight.”

“Yes, far from merely _pretty_.” Jon runs a finger down her neck, along the path of another rogue raindrop. She shivers again; this time, he grins. “I’m more like to call you beautiful. But that is perhaps too commonplace a word. Ethereal — though now I see that makes you blush,” he adds when Sansa does just that.

“I think —” his voice lowers as he continues, as his foot slips between the both of hers, to a rough sort of murmur that makes her skin tingle “— that I rather like making you blush, Miss Sansa. But I could call you _radiant_ instead, which I think would please us both.”

One of his hands goes to her waist, while the other continues to trace the rain where he can find it on her skin. Sansa is apt to burst, more so as he whispers in her ear, “Does it?”

“I must say that it does, exceedingly.” She longs to tease him, to feel lighthearted and easy, but her poor nerves are shot. She’s in danger of sliding down the doorframe right to the cold cobbled floor. Bless her, though, she does _try_ — “This all from the man who thinks his compliments to be clumsy?”

“I must confess, I’ve had a resurgence of confidence,” Jon admits, “since you nearly let me kiss you in the glass gardens.”

There is little sense in denying it, so Sansa doesn’t. “I did.”

Another step, more like the slightest of shifts so that his heartbeat chases close as it can behind hers.

“Might I kiss you here instead?”

She’s lost her voice entirely. She can only nod, which makes Jon smile — a flash of which she sees before all that’s left are the raindrops clinging to his lashes, and the freckles underneath his eyes, and then —

His lips press to hers, slightly parted. His breath tickles and his whiskers scratch, though not at all unpleasantly. Sansa finds herself parting her own lips beneath the coaxing insistence of his.

Through the bitterness of lingering coffee, Jon Snow tastes sweet, Sansa thinks. She should have known.

His lips and hers, too, are wet with rain. His mouth opens wider and hers follows suit, until their tongues touch and then tangle. A jolt shoots through her, and Sansa thinks that, in fact, nothing will ever taste so sweet to her again.

Jon Snow is sweeter even than lemon cakes, in every way she can imagine.

Her hands go to his hair, so that her fingers can run through the damp curls. She does not know at first if this is something that’s done. But then, when she tugs just a little, Jon releases a sharp exhale through his nose and Sansa thinks he must like it. It thrills her to know she’s done something he likes; she wants to know what else she might do for him, too.

The wind and the rain continue their barrage right next to where Jon and Sansa kiss, so thoroughly that already she is growing dizzy from it. Thunder claps and Jon holds her tighter. Lightning flashes, cutting through heavy, steel-grey clouds, behind her closed eyes, and Sansa’s back arches into his touch. His shirtfront is soaked, and his chest warm beneath it.

Jon tilts his head, changing the angle and taking the kiss deeper. His grip clutches at her waist and he pulls, bringing her right against him so that now she can feel his heartbeat — pounding and wild. She’s sure hers must feel the same to him.

She hopes it does. She’d very much like for him to know.

Just in case, so that he might know _something_ of the way he makes her feel, Sansa sucks his bottom lip between hers. (She doesn’t know why she does this any more than she’d known why she tugged at his hair, only that it felt like she ought to and, more than that, she _wanted_ to.)

Another sharp breath, and Jon groans her name — no _Miss_ , no cordiality to be found, only a throaty, tormented _Sansa_ — into her mouth. He releases his iron hold on her waist to trace its shape; he pushes his hands inside his coat she’s wearing to get closer, to caress the wet fabric of her dress and set her skin aflame beneath it.

Thunder rolls and her heart pounds. Jon is panting into the kiss as it goes on and on and splendidly _on_. Sansa’s own breathing is growing erratic as her body responds to his touch: every sweep of his hands, his tongue, the clash of his teeth against hers. The cold outside is nothing to the way she’s burning up for him. It’s like a fever that she cannot shake.

The kiss deepens further, growing furiously, fast, and inching towards madness, until Jon pushes her up against the doorframe and Sansa’s foot slips, splashing in a puddle and shocking them both back into sense.    

Even still, he does not let her go, and they can hardly catch their breath. His fans against her mouth. He fingers the lapels of his jacket and murmurs, lips still brushing hers, “I like the look of my coat on you.”

Dazed, Sansa sighs, a contented hum, that makes Jon smile. It seems she can do most anything and he’ll have a smile for her. He traces his thumb along her lips, pulling a grin from her as well.

He presses his forehead to hers and says, “If I’ve not made it very clear, I’d like to court you, if you’ll have me. Your mother is eager, somewhat, for a wedding, but… I’d like this first.” His eyes search hers, both blown wide and dark and bright. “If that would make you happy, I know it would certainly make me.”

“Yes, it would,” Sansa tells him, perhaps too eagerly, but she cannot find it within herself to care. Her hands slide over his shoulders and this time, she feels him shiver at her touch. “Very much.”

There is another flash of lightning outside, but it is nothing so bright as another one of Jon Snow’s smiles.


	6. v. an outing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this chapter is... very sloppy... but i’m too frustrated to scrap and redo it, and there’s too much dialogue i actually like to just bin the whole thing. so... *tosses glitter, unenthusiastically* ta-da

It’s been three weeks since Mr. Jon Snow and his party had arrived at Winterfell. Sansa has grown not only accustomed to, but so comfortable with his presence that it is as if he had always been there.

With so much company about, they have precious little time alone together. Aunt Lysa is still determined that Sansa ‘keep her options open,’ but Jon sits next to her at meals and in the parlour. Mr. Hardyng, at least, is sufficiently resigned to the unspoken rejection (or else he is afraid of provoking Jon’s ire again, but either way he has spoken little to Sansa in the past few weeks). Robin may be another story, but he has insofar made no formal proposal, so Sansa tries not to fret over it.

Jon escorts her on walks through the glass gardens most mornings, but they have only stolen a few kisses since their first. More carefully than their first, too, lest they get carried away.

“I wouldn’t dishonour you, Miss Sansa,” Jon tells her more than once. His lips are always so close to hers when he does so that she thinks he very much _would_ like to dishonour her.

She finds that this doesn’t trouble her in the slightest.

Their embraces, however short-lived, however controlled, are slowly but surely inching towards a fever pitch she can’t ignore. Nor can Jon, she thinks, whenever their mouths part and she catches him panting, eyes black as pitch as they roam her warm, pink-tinged face. There is something lingering, nagging, insistent, that lives on after they’ve collected themselves — an unspoken acknowledgement that they’re not yet finished with one another.

It’s a good thing, Sansa thinks, that she means to marry this man.

They mind their behaviour, though, when they are in others’ company. Sansa takes his arm when they walk, and Jon puts his hand at the small of her back whenever he can; but otherwise they adhere to their manners, though for no other reason than it’s what’s expected of them.

It’s most difficult during trips to town, where gossip thrives and becomes more exaggerated with every exchange. Sansa is mindful of her family’s reputation, and Jon is really quite shy about such things. Neither of them is keen on sending tongues wagging just because they’d like to show the other a bit of affection.

But, needs must, and so another afternoon finds Jon and Sansa on a stroll amongst the county’s townsfolk. The day is a cool one, the sunshine pale and the air dry, and the cobbled streets are bustling as their fellows enjoy a respite from the rainy season.

Every so often, Sansa pauses at a shop window to contemplate whether she needs to step indoors for anything. She’d meant to write a list, but Jon had made her quite forgetful before they’d left, when he’d snuck up behind her and planted a kiss to her neck.

It hadn’t helped matters when Aunt Lysa had burst in on them before Jon could properly kiss her. Sansa is quite sure the woman had done it on purpose.

“I need a new spool of ribbon for a dress,” she says now, eyes scanning the display at Ros and Shae’s. _The emerald would do quite nicely._

Jon cocks his head. “I thought you finished your dress?”

“Not for me. For Arya,” she clarifies, “for the Tyrells’ do at the weekend.”

“Arya wears dresses?”

“She does when I make them for her. If you ask her about it, she’ll tell you she doesn’t trust the seamstress.” Sansa smiles at the thought of her dear sister’s theatrics. “But I know what looks prettiest on her. She doesn’t always say so, but I can tell she likes whatever I make for her.

“Besides,” she continues, getting to the true heart of the matter, “I think it might do your friend Mr. Waters some good to remember that Arya is still a lady. I’m pleased that he likes her for who she is, but I also know how much she’d like a little romance, too. He can’t just keep challenging her to footraces and emptying his pockets whenever she wins at cards. He’ll run out of money, and Mother won’t consider that a courtship. And he’ll have to court Arya at least somewhat properly, if he wants Mother’s blessing.”

Jon looks rather dazed. Sansa supposes she’d given him much to think on, but he only swallows nervously and asks, “And that necessitates dancing?”

“It certainly helps.” She frowns, just a touch, as she looks at him. “Will he not dance with her?”

He seems to consider it, then shakes his head and chuckles, though he’d gone rather pale for reasons unbeknownst to Sansa. “You might have to tell him, otherwise I’m sure he won’t know what to do with her.”

“Then I shall. And what of you, Mr. Snow?” she asks, keeping to his formal name since they’re out in town. “Do you dance?”

“Not if I can help it,” Jon admits, and suddenly she realizes what his nerves are about. “But I — well, I would, if it would please you, Miss Sansa.”

He’s fiddling with his hands, his gaze so endearing as he appears to think Sansa will be terribly disappointed in him. Truly, she loves to dance — and she’d dearly love to dance with him — but… “It wouldn’t please me to cause you any discomfort.”

“You might think it a worthy punishment,” Jon tells her with a self-deprecating smile, “after I trod on your toes.”

She scoffs. “I wouldn’t let you trod on my toes. I’m a very skilled dance partner.”

“I’m sure you are.”

He does not seem so shy now, in the darkness of his eyes nor the way they fall to her lips. He stares, open and hungry and likely to be noticed by anyone who happens to pass by them. They’re sure to notice the blush blooming all across Sansa’s skin, too, and she’ll hardly be able to blame it on the sun.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says sternly, trying not to smile so as not to encourage him. “It’s not decent when we’re in town.”

He is encouraged nonetheless, and takes a step closer to prove it. He ghosts his fingertips down her arm. “And when we’re alone?”

“Likely not, but…” Sansa’s not sure what more to say about it, though Jon seems quite pleased with _but_ , so she leaves it be.

In a bid to collect herself — and because she really does need the ribbon — Sansa makes for the front door of the shop. Jon follows behind, which surprises her enough that she stops in her tracks to frown at him again. She doesn’t think she’s frowned at him this much since they were introduced; she hopes it does not offend him.

“You’re coming in with me?”

“Am I not allowed?”

“No, of course you are,” Sansa assures. “It’s only, most men go for a drink or a cigar. I know you’re not much for gambling, but…”

She trails off once more. It’s not unheard of for a man to accompany his wife or his betrothed into the shops, but most young ladies do not expect such attention from their suitors. Silks and ribbons and baubles were of no interest to them.

Jon’s brow furrows in a state of the deepest confusion. “But I came along to spend the day with you.”

If she were not already quite in danger of being in love with him, Sansa is sure that would have done it all on its own.

That’s not something one declares on the threshold of a ribbon shop, though, so Sansa settles on a warm smile as she beckons him inside with her.

She chooses the emerald for Arya, for green tends to give her sister the appearance of a wood nymph — a charming image, Sansa’s always thought and, considering Arya’s penchant for mischief, appropriate, too. She browses for her mother as well, and finds a pearl brooch that matches a pair of earrings Ned had given her. She selects a tin of sugared plums for Aunt Lysa and tells Jon, who had been extremely put-off by the woman’s interruption that morning, “We’ll call it a peace offering.”

“As you say, Miss Sansa.” She can tell he does not agree, but he smooths his hand across the small of her back and she has no desire to press the matter.

They’re at the counter when Sansa is distracted by a _‘hello, how do you do, dear?’_ from the Lady Waynwood. She’s turned her back naught but a moment, and when she attends again to the counter Jon’s already paid for the ribbon and trinkets. And something else, too, in a blue velvet box he tucks into his coat pocket almost before she can see it.

“What’s that?”

“Hm?” He feigns ignorance, so lightly that she thinks it makes no real difference to him whether she’d noticed the box or not. “What’s what? Nothing.”

Sansa prods at him all the way out of the shop and back onto the road. Jon does not let up, though, only smiles mysteriously and pretends to have no idea what she’s on about.

But his smile falters when Mr. Theon Greyjoy lopes past with some of his mates, pausing to shoot Sansa a grin and a wink and a _‘lovely afternoon, Miss Stark, though not half so lovely as you.’_

“Manners, Mr. Greyjoy,” Sansa reminds him out of habit. He laughs and, with a wave, continues on his merry way.

As do she and Jon, who has fallen quiet, contemplative. There is a frown line between his brows. He clears his throat a time or two before he speaks.

“Men often… look at you.”

 _Oh._ Sansa acts as though it’s nothing to her, which it is, and she’d very much like to assure Jon of it. “They’re only flirts, for the most part. Harmless.”

He clears his throat again. “I don’t like it, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

“I don’t encourage them. Not now, especially,” she tells him. She takes his arm, so as to discreetly, soothingly caress it as they walk. His hand flexes, as it does whenever he wants to touch her but must hold himself back from doing so.

“I promise you, Jon,” she goes on in an undertone, for these words are for him alone, “you are the only man courting me, and the only one I’d wish to.”

He inclines his head to look at her and says, softly but quite seriously, “Thank you.”

She gives him a smile and another squeeze, then regards him curiously as his agitation evaporates. “Has a woman never flirted with you before?”

“Not that I know of,” Jon replies carelessly.

Sansa blinks, surprised again and even a bit offended on his behalf. “But — you’re so handsome.”

Instantly, his ears go pink. “Thank you, Miss Sansa.”

“Well, you can understand my… my indignation,” she decides. “You have a good name, and a fine inheritance, and the sweetest disposition of any man I’ve ever met.”

“I must say, my disposition is entirely for you,” Jon says by way of explanation. He is flushed now, and won’t be able to blame the sun any more than she could earlier. “As for the rest… I may have been the heir to Winterfell, but no southron ladies in my acquaintance had any desire to go further north. They queued up for my brother. Anyone who might have spared a moment for me only did so in the hopes of getting close to Aegon.”

Sansa’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “That’s wretched.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m quite pleased with the way things have turned out.” His grey eyes sparkle as they study her, nevermind the cloudiness of the day. “And I must confess, by the time I was old enough to be interested in any flirtations, I simply wasn’t.”

He looks at her pointedly, prompting her to ask, “Because of me?”

“Aye.”

_If this sweet disposition truly is all for me, it is a wonder and a crime I’ve not married him already._

“Are you ever going to tell me what Mother and Father told you of me,” she presses, “to make you so sure?”

He smiles, chortles a little, and straightens his coat as they continue aimlessly down the street. “Today I will tell you that they made you sound like the loveliest person in the world, and I am happy to find that to be true.”

“Don’t tease me,” Sansa insists, making him laugh some more. “What did they _say_?”

But it seems he will not relent in his teasing, as he adopts a most serious expression that is belied by that same irrepressible, beatific smile that makes Sansa’s skin tingle.

“They told me, ‘Jon, she is the loveliest person in the world, but we must caution you for propriety’s sake not to propose marriage to her immediately, no matter how much you will undoubtedly like to.’”

“So this is what you’re telling me _today_ ,” she affirms, unable to hide her own grin as she does. He makes her heart far too giddy for pretense. “Does that mean you’ll tell me a new ridiculous thing every other day as well?”

“If you’d like. But I do resent you accusing my feelings of being ridiculous.”

His words make her dizzy enough as it is. Sansa blushes and changes course, lest she lose her head completely and jump into his arms in the middle of the street.

“And I resent you making all my purchases.” She nods to the bag in his free hand. “I do have money, you know.”

He is not swayed in the slightest. It’s as if he knows precisely why she’d stopped flirting with him, only to scold him instead, but he is determined to push her limitations in the middle of the street like some common harlot.

“Please get accustomed to not spending it.”

“You can be very stubborn, you know.”

“Can I, now?” he teases her anew, his confidence piqued the same way it had that very first morning in the rain. Sansa does not fail to notice it.

“I shan’t ever let you kiss me again,” she declares. So much for collecting herself, but Jon makes her feel a little bit reckless and wild, and she indulges in it. “It seems to have gone to your head.”

“Is that so? You’re fortunate we’re in the middle of town, else I’d call your bluff. I’ve half a mind to do it now regardless.” He stops walking to get a good look at her, a proper look that makes her whole body shiver when his voice drops low. “It’s been but a day since our last and already I’ve greatly missed kissing you, Sansa.”

She swallows her rampaging nerves, her bubbling excitement. “We musn’t forget ourselves.”

“Hmmm.” Jon’s eyes are hooded, like he’s halfway to kissing her, wherever they happen to be. “I do have a terrible memory.”

“Is that so?” she mimics him, gaze drawn to his lips as they inch, almost imperceptibly, towards hers. “I must hope, then, that you don’t forget me.”

“Impossible.” And then, quite quickly, he drops a kiss to her mouth without a care in the world.

It’s a chaste thing, this kiss, not unlike the ones her parents used to share while in public (and a good deal more decent than many of those, really). It’s a touch scandalous to be so bold in a crowd, but despite her earlier reservations, Sansa cannot be bothered to mind. Jon is too warm, too earnest, too heaven-sent lovely, for her to care whether they are the subject of gossip at their neighbors’ tables later in the evening.

They might have gone on just like this, lips fused, her hand ‘round his arm and his holding tight to her fingers, if it had not been for the haughty little _‘a-hem’_ of someone not so far off.

“Oh, Sansa, my dove,” the someone says when she and Jon break apart. “My apologies, I did not recognize you.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Baelish,” she replies, as smoothly as ever, if a bit breathless from Jon’s attentions. She can feel her face redden. _Of all those who might have interrupted us…_ “It’s a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce Mr. Jon Snow, my —”

“Cousin, yes, and heir to Winterfell,” Mr. Baelish finishes for her. He smirks. “And a very ardent suitor, too, so it seems.”

Jon regards the man with a sort of cool suspicion. “We beg your pardon, sir. I find I often forget myself in Miss Stark’s company, though I do think that’s a promise of a happy marriage.” His smile is tight, much different than the ones he bestows upon Sansa. “So perhaps not _too_ much of a pardon is necessary.”

She startles at that, but Jon’s hand atop hers holds her in place. He intertwines their fingers in a silent assurance that he means what he says.

Some part of her had known, of course, that this courtship would end in a union beneath the heart tree. Sansa had been thinking it in her own head for these past weeks, but she had never voiced it aloud. It seemed an inevitability, practical and then sweepingly romantic ever since Jon had first taken her hand to press a kiss upon it. But it’s something else entirely to hear him say, plain as day, that a marriage is intended between them.

More than ever, she wishes that Mr. Baelish would disappear so that she might kiss Jon all over again.

Far from disappearing, the man smirks and says, “Indeed. I suppose you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, after all. I’m sure such behaviours cannot be helped, no matter the lady in question.”

Jon bristles at that. Sansa is sure she can hear his teeth gnash. She strokes his arm and speaks before he can get a — likely biting — word out. “Mr. Snow is very much a gentleman. I’m afraid I often get swept up in the moment myself. You know how dearly I love the old songs, Mr. Baelish.”

She looks to Jon with another smile. “I find I’m compelled to kiss him whenever I have the chance. It’s quite unbecoming of a young lady, I know, yet youth is somewhat to blame, isn’t it?”

“You’ve always been clever,” Mr. Baelish notes, sickly sweet and overly familiar. “Much like your mother. Though I do caution you, sweetling, to mind yourself while out and about. You’ll break many a man’s heart, if you carry on with this one as such.”

“If you’ll excuse us, sir,” Jon cuts in before Sansa can manage it. “Miss Stark has a dress to finish for her sister before the Tyrells’ ball. I trust we’ll see you there, lest I forget myself again.”

The remark is suggestive enough to keep any eavesdroppers talking well beyond their supper tables tonight, but Jon has marched Sansa off before she can so much as think of how to dilute it.

“You didn’t even let me say a proper farewell,” Sansa chides as they walk, more briskly now. “The man may be a lech, but I’m still expected to be courteous. There’s no rush on Arya’s dress, I don’t mean to finish it ‘til tomorrow. We needn’t run back to Winterfell so soon —”

“We’re not running back to Winterfell,” Jon informs her.

“No? Then where are we going so quickly?”

He tosses her a glance, one of steely determination that sets her nerves to ricocheting to-and-fro. “To _‘carry on._ ’”

Sansa has not even caught her breath when Jon tugs her into an alleyway, and steals the next from her lungs with a searing kiss.

This one is not chaste or short-lived, but possessive and hungry. Sansa does not mind the lack of finesse as Jon’s tongue pushes into her mouth, and would be mortified at her wanton moan if only it didn’t feel so… _good_ , that’s the only word for it, as Jon takes her to heights unclimbed with a scorching, unparalleled frenzy she would not have expected of such a usually reserved man.

Now, he’s making her toes curl in a dimly-lit alley, and she’s never felt less of a young lady nor the need to act the part. She does not have to pretend — Jon wants her, just as she is, just as she feels, whenever they’re alone together.

Perhaps a woman should not have such lascivious thoughts outside of the marriage bed. But Sansa’s fingers twine into his hair, and she sorely wishes the stone wall at her back was instead a goose-feather bed — not for the comfort of it, but for what it would mean for Jon to have her there.

He explores the folds and stitches of her simple day dress as if it is the finest silk gown. He moves to her neck, and Sansa to his. His mouth is soft and hungry, and his skin scratchy with whiskers; she thrills at the contrast of so many sensations at once.

“If I were to tell you something,” he breathes into her ear, “would you think me an unforgivably wicked man?”

She moans again, softly, and parts her lips just beneath his jaw. “Tell me.”

“Sam left the Citadel with all manner of books in his possession,” Jon tells her, still plucking kisses wherever he can reach. “They all speak of temptation, of sin, of the sanctity of the marriage bed… and one speaks of what a man might do to his wife once there.”

He returns to her ear, voice hoarse as it rumbles into her skin, “I stole the book, and would very much like to share it with you. Whenever you wish.”

Sansa must find her common sense, but in truth she’s not searching for it hard enough. She kisses Jon harder — he is far more pleasing than sense, after all — and asks, as he pants and chases her lips, “Do you mean to make me a ruined woman, so that no one else will want me?”

His hand clenches upon the wall next to her head. “Forgive me, my lady, but I mean to be the only one who has you. I don’t seek to ruin you — I only _want_ you.”

It is not proper, to want him the way that she does. At least, it’s what she’s been taught. But Jon looks at her as though she’d strung up the stars and he wants to give her the moon; he touches her like she’s made of spun glass, precious and rare and all his; and she wonders what is so wrong with wanting him the way that she does, when he has made it no secret that he wants her just as much?

“I’ll think on it,” Sansa decides. She presses another kiss to his still-seeking lips, lingering there, and whispers to him, “But only if you dance with me at the Tyrells’, trod on my toes or not.”

“A waste of a bargaining chip,” Jon scoffs, but grins all the while. “I’ll dance with you just because I can.”

Is it any small wonder, really, that she’s found herself so in love?


	7. vi. a declaration

When Catelyn receives a note from one Mr. Petyr Baelish, she summons Jon and Sansa both to the study for a hearty scolding.

“You’ve not so much as announced an engagement, and you’re parading about town in a manner most unbecoming of a lord and his lady! If _Petyr Baelish_ , of all people, considers your behaviour to be in question, I must only assume the worst of you. I allowed you to go about unescorted because I trusted you to keep your heads —”

 _And because you wanted to spite dear Aunt Lysa_ , Sansa thinks, but dare not say aloud.

“— and clearly I was very much shortsighted in that regard. I may as well allow you to spend your nights together in the gambling house, if this is how you’re going to behave.”

It’s a quarter of an hour before Catelyn stops to draw breath, and another after that before she dolls out her verdict: Jon and Sansa are not to be left without supervision until their engagement is made official.

“You’re the one who wanted to court her first,” Catelyn says, pointing at Jon. “So I expect you to act as her suitor — a _gentleman_ befitting of his title — not some lusty boy in a brothel. Sansa, if he tries it again, you are allowed to slap him upside the head.”

“Indeed, you are,” Jon asserts, most seriously, even if he’s not quite contrite enough about the whole thing to suit Catelyn.

“It’s not as though you behaved badly all on your own,” Sansa mumbles to Jon once they’ve been dismissed, likely so her mother could ease her headache with smelling salts. “I kissed you, too.”

“I recall.” Jon grins. He fiddles with the buttons on his coat. “But all the same, I am sorry for allowing my jealousy to get the better of me. It doesn’t reflect well upon you if I act so impulsively whenever another man… makes eyes at you.”

Sansa snorts — another thing most unbecoming of a lady, but it couldn’t be helped. “Well if it makes any difference, I’ll be too preoccupied _‘making eyes’_ at you to notice.”

“It makes a very happy difference, yes,” Jon says, looking bashful but well-pleased.

It’s less pleasing, though, when the next few days finds them followed by various members of the household. Jon’s expression is sure to freeze into a scowl, for the number of times his mouth twists at anyone who clears their throat to interrupt him whenever he tries to give Sansa a kiss, however chaste.

Once, when he tries to bestow one upon her cheek, Samwell Tarly throws a book at his head. It’s not a particularly heavy book, but Jon curses the man soundly all the same as he rubs at his temple, and Sansa tries her best not to laugh. She makes amends by pressing her own lips to a very sullen Jon’s bruise and that, at least, halts his cursing.

A better day comes just before the Tyrells’ ball ( _the event of the season, darling_ , Miss Margaery has gushed with her signature and charming enthusiasm). Arya and Gendry, taking pity on them, offer to accompany the couple out on the grounds. Neither of them are overly concerned with propriety, though Jon and Sansa will not push their fortune too far.

They sit perched together upon the fence, Sansa in riding trousers, a cotton shirt, and the same hat Arya had worn to greet the party from Dragonstone, though it is not so comically large on Sansa, who uses it to ward off the sun from her fair complexion; Jon is in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, curls windblown and continuously ruffled by the breeze. Sansa’s fingers itch to be that which musses his hair, but she keeps still. It would do no good for them to be reprimanded further.

They watch as Arya and Gendry race horses ‘round the enclosure. Their hands, so close together, touch, and Sansa feels a thrill whenever he grazes his fingertips across her skin — _intentionally_ , she might add, for she recognizes the ghost of satisfied smirk upon his face at every turn.

“You look beautiful today, Miss Sansa. No — ravishing,” Jon amends. He has resolved not to call her _beautiful_ too often. As he said on the morning of their first kiss, it does not do her justice enough for his taste.

“Oh?” She gives herself a once-over. “In my trousers?”

Even if she had not looked up at that precise moment, Sansa would have heard his gulp as he swallows. It pleases her, somehow.

Jon gives her a once-over of his own and says, in rather strangled tones, “Yes, my lady, quite — _quite_ ravishing in your trousers.”

Sansa smiles, a little confused but nonetheless happy for it. “You’re a curious man, did you know?”

“And you are by far the sweetest person I’ve ever met,” Jon counters, “no matter how often you insist it’s me.”

“Well in all fairness, you have proven yourself to be a more troublesome man than I’d expected,” Sansa admits. “So perhaps I’ll have to rescind the rest of it.”

“Troublesome?” Jon echoes, much too chuffed to not suspect where the conversation is headed.

Sansa hums an affirmation. “Indeed. Why don’t you tell me more about this book of yours?”

“Is my lady feeling especially wicked this afternoon?” He grins, and his gaze is on her mouth. “She teases me so.”

“Do I, now?” Sansa laughs. “You’re the one who told me of it. I’m only curious.”

And she is, truly. She knows little of men’s desires, save for what she and Margaery have discussed, tittering over too many glasses of wine at dances. Her friend knows far more than she, for Sansa had no inclination to wonder such things until Jon came to Winterfell. She had understood the marriage bed and the conception of children, but the notion that such things could bring pleasure, too… She had tried not to linger on those thoughts.

But it was growing more difficult by the day, since Jon had kissed her so thoroughly at the first, and her mind has been occupied with little else as of late. Since her mother had chastised them for their carelessness, she has been denied of his physical affections; and she finds herself positively starved for them.

“Aye, I’m curious myself,” Jon agrees. He licks his lips, and Sansa thinks she’s like to faint already. “It’s… untoward, though, to speak so candidly of it.”

“And yet you spoke of it to begin with.”

“As I said, I’m a terribly wicked man, to entertain such thoughts of you.” Jon tugs at a loose tendril of her hair. “I would show you, though.”

Her stomach flips. She’d like him to show her, but she must keep her wits about her, so — “And _that’s_ not untoward?”

“Oh, I’m afraid it is,” he confesses. “But it’s as much as I can say when we’re out of the privacy of our own company.”

“It’s only Arya and Mr. Waters,” Sansa reminds him. “They’re well out of earshot, and not paying any mind to us, besides.”

“I wouldn’t want to get… carried away.” Though Jon looks as if he’s sorely tempted to do so. “Perhaps I’ll tell you tomorrow, at the Tyrells’ ball. I suppose we’ll need to be on our best behaviour — no stealing away to any dark corners for kissing and all that — but I daresay I might be able to whisper a thing or two in your ear while we dance.”

He’s grinning widely now. Sansa tries to admonish him for it. “Now, I’m _sure_ that’s much more improper than simply telling me about it right here.”

“Hmm, I suppose that’s right.” Quickly, Jon drops a kiss to her forehead, hitching the brim of her hat up a little to accommodate it. “But I’ve decided already, I’m going to be the terribly wicked man I warned you of, if you don’t mind.”

She giggles, because she doesn’t. Her nerves are humming in her veins, but they’re born of a delicious sort of anticipation that she wouldn’t mind indulging for another day. She doesn’t know where this patience is coming from, though she does think — inexplicably, perhaps — it will be far worth her while.

They’re quiet for a time, content to brush fingertips and watch her sister and his fellow lead their horses in a gallop along the perimeter of the fence.

Sansa leans towards him, just a fraction of an inch. There’s nothing much she wants to say or speak of right this moment, but she longs to hear the comforting rumble of his voice, so she prompts him — “Jon?”

He leans towards her, too, eyes closing in contentment when their temples touch. “Yes, my love?”

 _Oh._ Sansa snaps back, not too far but enough that she can look at him, to ascertain if it was only a slip of the tongue, or —

Jon’s brow is furrowed, expression stoic as he studies her reaction in turn. She wonders if he can hear the rampant thundering of her heart.

“Is that alright?” he asks, quiet and concerned. “Because I — I do love you, Sansa. Perhaps you think it too soon to say, but —”

“I don’t think so. That is, it’s not too soon,” she corrects herself before she can possibly be misunderstood. “I know it’s not been much time, but… I’ve spent months denying potential proposals because it was all only for love of Winterfell that anyone wanted me.”

“Sansa —” He reaches for her hand. He wants to argue the point, she knows it, but she doesn’t want him to. It’s not important. But she lets him interlace their fingers, and she squeezes his in reassurance.

“No, I’m not disparaging myself,” she explains truthfully. “But the allure of lordship, however improbable considering my father’s will, mattered more. Then you came to Winterfell, and you didn’t even want it, really. You made it quite clear that the estate was ours for the taking.” Her heart swells as it races still. “But you wasted no time in…”

“In wanting you,” Jon finishes for her when she falters, unsure of how to put what she feels into words.

 _Yes, that’s perfect._ She nods. “And that’s how I know it’s true. Because for you, it was never about anything else but me.”

Sansa smiles again, ruefully this time when she hears her own words. “That makes me sound selfish.”

“No.” Jon chucks her under her chin, so that she doesn’t shift her eyes away from his. “It makes you sound like you know how you should be loved. Just for you, just as you are.” His hand moves from her chin to cup her cheek, stroking her jawline as he goes. “And I do, Sansa. I promise you that.”

“I know.” She nuzzles into his touch, and it’s such a gorgeous relief when she tells him, “I love you, too.”

Maybe she cannot _hear_ his heart as such, but it’s there in his eyes, in the beaming glow of his smile, and the breath he expels with her name free-wheeling off his lips — _Sansa…_

“Oi!” Arya’s cry rings out across the grounds to interrupt their lovestruck embrace. “Enough of that, heathens! We’re supposed to be watching you!”

Without taking those eyes, nor that smile, off Sansa, Jon shouts back, “I’d prefer that you didn’t!”

And with that, he whisks the hat from Sansa’s head, and uses it to block their faces from view as — proper manners be damned, they’re in love, for gods’ sake — he catches her lips in the most ardent kind of kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: wow i hope everyone enjoyed that chapter of NOTHING but i was getting stuck a bit on the next (the tyrells’ ball, which is going to run longer than most of these chapters so far), so i decided to toss this in as an interlude of sorts. plus i thought the i-love-you’s deserved their own chapter (and also?? they won’t stop flirting?? it’s not even my fault it’s just their canon selves’ raw sexual magnetism bleeding into this fic, okay) so... 
> 
> next time this fic pops into your email, get ready to party. there’s a minimum of three installments left to go! (lmao remember when i said five chapters was pushing it?? god i’m such a ditz)


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